Kris Schnee - Everyone's Island

Nearly everyone on Castor worked, but even the kids of the idle-rich visitors dutifully went to the improvised school, once in a while. It cost money and people grumbled about that. The school was run by Miss Sullivan, a woman who’d shown up and announced she was the new teacher, brooking no argument. She’d brought in Tess today because she was always trying to keep the classes interesting.

So Tess slouched in front of the dozen kids of the junior session. They were outdoors today at Granger Point, the garden platform Garrett had named for Alexis. Tess felt haunted by the reminder of the hurricane disaster, but the new gardening club kept the place fresh and new, looking to the future. Tess found herself liking the climbing vines and lotuses around her. She got back to her lecture. “To make machines work, you have to think about the manufacturing process. You can’t rely on having a factory somewhere make stuff for you automagically, or you’ll get ripped off ’cause you don’t understand what steps are involved.” ( Damn made-in-Africa circuitry , thought Zephyr.)

A girl raised her hand. “Miss Castle?”

“Tess.”

“You know how when you look at the Net you can see the shape of how stuff is made, and bend it to see what it’d be like if the parts came from somewhere else? Is that a good way to plan stuff, or should we game it out first?”

Tess blinked. She’d not thought of treating the whole Net like a picture, a jillion pixels as one pattern. Oh, that billion-node global information network looks like a bunny! Oh, Western literature is an eight-dimensional puzzle piece that fits like so with other stuff! Although some of her work, some idea that she barely remembered, had been a little like that. “Some of what we build here has a short supply chain, and we’re even trying to make plastic from bacteria. So I’d probably evolve a manufacturing setup with one of the freeware Intelligent Design programs — the old-fashioned way.”

A boy spoke up next. “How can I fix my uncle so he never has to die?”

“And my brother,” said another boy.

Tess stepped back from them, reeling, mumbling something about mental patterns. Who was she to answer that?

Yet another kid said, “Different topic. How can we set up an intelligent Net on Mars?”

“Nobody’s on Mars.”

“Well duh, but you’re gonna help send people there someday, right? You can do anything.”

Bewildered and flattered, Tess could only run her hands through her hair and say, “So can you.”

It was late and she was tired. But she’d been arguing with Leda about some books they’d been reading, and that had her feeling edgy. Castor was riddled with clubs and associations. Even members of the Leeist faction were involved, mingling and wooing people with promises of low-commitment spirituality. Bunch of con artists, even if they did have a hot guy or two attending their book club meetings.

Tonight she wandered around the dim walkways on the water, watching the sea and sky and buildings. Nothing had blown up lately, which was nice. There were accidents waiting to happen though; there’d been some trouble with a kid, and Garrett was testing some big floaty hexagons that you climbed down into, that had to be deathtraps. The prototype bobbing here in the darkness was a glorified hunk of plastic foam with a hatch in it. Nice clean engineering at least. Maybe she’d call up Garrett and brainstorm about it; he’d still be awake.

Zephyr’s voice broke in above the background murmur of their thoughts. “Emergency!”

Oh, no. Again? She grabbed the dive knife on her hip and looked for trouble, saying, “Do I have to fight?” She sounded braver than she felt. “What is it?”

“Murder,” said Zephyr. He sent a map of the colony with a red X on a floating dock. “General alarm?”

Garrett froze, but only for a moment. “No. Security: Lock down the docks. No one leaves. Tell other key people, and get Tess and Val to safety. God, it’s not one of them, is it?”

“No, I have no memory of the victim. Too bad.”

The others came on the shared radio channel, full of questions. Garrett cautiously headed toward the place where a tourist had found the body. He climbed down to the waterline and met with two Security men.

To his surprise, the guards blocked his way. “It could still be dangerous, sir. Let us handle this.”

“Don’t be stupid. There’s a killer in my home.”

“Exactly. To be frank, get your ass back into your office and lock the door. Sir.”

Garrett fumed, but let one of the men lead him back upstairs to do as they said. He wondered if this might be some kind of coup attempt. He paced, watching for updates on a screen and feeling useless. After a few minutes the news came in. The victim was a Miss Butler, US citizen, shot to death and found in the driftwood area of improvised boat-platforms. The killer had been caught: a drunken gambler too dumb to throw away a smoking gun. It looked like a random, pointless killing.

Garrett’s door clicked open and he reached for his holster before seeing that it was only his self-appointed bodyguards. “All clear,” they said, like nothing was wrong.

Fighting he could deal with, but meetings were another matter. They’d taken over the most private, secure conference room they could find — the restaurant.

“The killing is all over the Net already,” said Tess.

Garrett sighed. His first reaction to the murder had been secrecy, but there was no hiding such a thing. “What’s the press coverage like?”

She said, “The usual sensationalism. ‘What a horrible and shocking place this is!’”

Garrett had brought in Eaton to discuss this latest problem, for his security knowledge and connections. Eaton drummed on the table and said, “Once again, it’s a matter of Castor being unable to guarantee the safety of its guests.”

“Of course we can’t guarantee people’s safety,” said Garrett. “We’re on a chunk of concrete in the middle of the ocean.”

“We can,” said Leda.

Garrett looked at her. She wore her grey overcoat and a regal expression of confidence. “What, by locking everyone in their rooms?”

“No,” she said. “It’s time we dealt with the underlying problem here. We don’t really have anyone looking at the overall welfare of Castor’s people.”

“We don’t need anything like that — a psychologist-in-chief or whatever you have in mind.”

Leda looked straight at him and said, “What we need is a mayor .”

Garrett laughed. “A mayor! We have a couple hundred people, so that’s a presumptuous title. May as well call myself Emperor. I don’t think giving speeches is going to improve our security, either.”

“Again, you’re missing the big picture. We have a lot of little businesses now, legitimate and not—”

“How are they not legitimate?”

“And we have poor people struggling to make a living in an anarchic environment. We need to ask the people privileged enough to be on top here to contribute to those at the bottom.”

Garrett was flabbergasted. “Taxes? Here?”

Leda had a paper notepad in front of her. She’d obviously been thinking about this idea for a while. “I’m talking about a comprehensive program to make this place fair and livable. This isn’t about one crime, it’s about our refusing to take responsibility. Mister Eaton, what do you think the US government will do when it responds to this murder?”

Eaton said, “There’ll be some call for an immediate police action to take charge of Castor. I expect cooler heads will prevail if you hand the killer over and say something reassuring.”